chestnut

You're annoyed at first. "Dude. Why do you keep repeating everything I say?"

Dex doesn't answer, but a week later, you catch him calling another agent "dude" over the phone after they screw something up.

And just like that. Your words? Being stolen again.

After a while, the annoyance turns into fondness, and you start teaching him what to say and when to say it.

Honestly, it's kinda cute.

Dex has social media, but he hasn't been keeping up with trends. He's there only because you're there. So when he comes home one day and casually drops a slang you've never taught him, it makes you pause.

"Where did you learn that?"

"What?"

"What you just said. Who taught you that?"

You swear his head grows bigger when he straightens up next to you on the couch. "I can be hip, you know."

You burst out laughing, head falling back against the couch, hair brushing his arm. Dex narrows his eyes at you, heat creeping up his neck, but he doesn't move away. He likes being in your space. "What's so funny?"

"Hip," you wheeze, wiping tears from your eyes. "Nobody says that anymore."

Turns out he's been secretly looking up "Slang terms and how to use them like a pro" because he thought you'd like it. You always say things he's never heard before.

The tips of his ears turn pink, and it only makes you laugh harder. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him closer. He automatically shifts so you can sit in his lap, your hands looped behind his neck.

"Hip," you repeat and peck a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth, where a smile is threatening to appear despite his fluster. "You're hip. The hippest person in the world."

A crooked smile finally tugs at his mouth as he nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck to avoid your gaze. The embarrassment lingers, but your laugh and sweet kiss quickly melt it away.

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"Don't move, baby." He groaned, his hand on your hip holding you still when you tried moving your hips a little, aching to move while his hard thickness filled you up nice and warm, feeling your own wetness quietly sloshing with the slightest movement.

This was torture. Yes you're the one who suggested it. Agreed to let him work on the case. Promised to be good because he still wanted to give you attention.

But your body was begging you for friction.

"De. Baby, please.." your whimper fell into his shoulder, nuzzling into his neck, so tempted to squeeze him just to get more. "I'm almost done, 5 more minutes sweetheart." His hand travels to caress your cheek, electrifying your already heightened senses and making your eyes flutter shut.

"You said 5 minutes 10 minutes ago." You barely manage to put the whine in your tone, leaning into the palm of his hand. His smirk deepens when you manage to open your lids, tantalizing you with more thoughts and images of what you'd so much rather be doing right now. "I'll take care of you, babygirl." He promises, resting his forehead against yours for a moment.

His hip buck ever so slightly when he moved to grab something, making you gasp into his shoulder then whimper at the momentary relief. His light chuckle fills your ears and goes straight to your already dripping hole. "Sorry, pretty." He whispers, pressing an apologetic kiss to your shoulder. "Meanie." You whine, nuzzling closer.

Dean rests his hand back on your waist, his thumb caressing right under your top. Frustrated, you start brushing your lips onto his neck, trailing feather light kisses, trying to lure him under, mostly to keep you sane. "Sweetheart.." he whimpers, his breathing getting deeper, feeling him twitch inside of you. Making you even more desperate.

You trail the kisses along his jaw, a hand going through his hair. You feel his grip on your waist harden, breathing getting shallower. Capturing his lips in a kiss in a tender attempt for more.

"You're so beautiful.." he whispers when you pull back for air, framing your face with the edge of his fingers. "My pretty baby. Made you wait long enough haven't I?" You nod, pressing popcorn kisses all over his face.

Dean pushes away from the table with a lighthearted laugh, his hand already cupping your ass to hold you up, "wrap your legs around me, pretty." And you do, giggling as he stands up and moves away from the table. "Atta girl." Thrusting into you just a bit deeper with every step he took to the bed.

His weight was practically already on top of you when you felt your back hit the bed, legs still wrapped around his waist were now aiding him push down his pants and boxer. Face buried in the crook of your neck, softly sucking and biting into your skin, while his hand felt you all over.

Then he started rolling his hips into you, hard.

A gasp falls from your lips, making your back arch as you already feel yourself reaching the edge. Dean pulls back and his gaze locks with yours, his hand coming up to caress your cheek, "Feel good, angel?" He groans, pressing wet open mouthed kisses to your jawline.

You nod, whimpering, your brain still catching up on how to use words again from how good it feels. His warmth engulfing your senses and leaving tiny goosebumps on your skin. "So- so good. You feel so good, Dean." Your praise goes straight to his dick, feeling him twitch again and he whimpers from the hit of dopamine, locking lips with yours to swallow your moans.

"De-" you cry out, feeling the knot in your stomach ready to snap at any moment, "I know, baby. I know." The words brush your ear, "Just feel good for me." His hand reaches down and finds your dripping folds, pressing soft circles onto your clit with his thumb.

Making you come, really, really hard.

Your walls clamp down on him while you cry out his name, and he buries his face in your chest, breathing heavy as he shoots his load in you, coating your insides with hot, sticky, white strings.

The two of you lay there for a moment, catching your breath, your hand running through his hair in a dazed bliss. He finally pulls back to look at you, giving you a smile, "Hi, sweetheart.", your eyes crescent, smiling back at him "Hi, baby." He kisses you for a moment, sweetly, tenderly, full of certainty.

"You ok?" He asks, caressing your cheek while resting his forehead to yours. "More than.", "Good. I'll get a towel to clean you up." You shake your head no, wrapping your arms around his neck and keeping him in place. "No, stay. I don't want you to pull out just yet."

He chuckles, rendering your cheeks to flush but he just gives you another kiss, rolling onto his side slowly so he wouldn't slip out just yet, pulling you into his arms so you're tangled together and pulling the covers over yourselves.

ex-popstar! Reader who, at 12, was uploading videos of your singing.

ex-popstar! Reader who was snatched up by one of the top labels in the industry after a talent agent discovered the videos. Training to be a solo act began swiftly and ruthlessly; your days started as early as six in the morning and ended as late as three in the morning. Everything was monitored, from your meals down to your breathing.

ex-popstar! Reader who, at 14, debuted after singing the opening song for a teen show on a popular television network. Your label released a music video with you singing and dancing the song, which quickly got unimaginable hits.

ex-popstar! Reader who was completely unrecognizable with your bright outfits and hair (all wigs). After your first year of fame, you officially released your first album. A smashing success to young audiences. Everyone wanted to know who was this girl that was taking the industry by storm.

ex-popstar! Reader who, by the time you were 17, released 3 albums, 5 EPs, multiple music videos, and your label was rolling out merchandise. Your face was plastered on youth magazines and people clamored for interviews. Your label coordinated your collabs and PR 'hangouts' with actors and children of celebrities that were your age.

ex-popstar! Reader who had a script drilled into your brain for every interview to not embarrass your label. Some white lies here and there had the masses eating up your alleged tragic past.

ex-popstar! Reader who started to dislike it after the first couple of times. Your mother was always lovely to you, you got along with your peers before leaving for stardom, you weren't rich but your mother worked hard to provide. Why did you have to play the role of some kind of Cinderella?

ex-popstar! Reader who, when you turned 18, toured for the first time. Your outfits were as bright as ever but they had less…cloth to them. You learned breathing exercises before every show so your hands stopped shaking and you stopped fidgeting with your skirts.

ex-popstar! Reader who continued to tour, both domestically and internationally, and earned titles of 'Pop Princess' and the 'Sweetheart of Pop'. As you got older, an uneasiness started to overtake your passion for art. Your label manufactured dating rumors, scandals, and paid off paparazzi. Any friendship you thought you had with other popstars were quickly slashed by said rumors. Any exposure is good exposure.

ex-popstar! Reader who, when you turned 21, realized something was wrong after a particularly bad anxiety attack in your dressing room. Your eyes clenched shut and your hands gripped your head to stop the thoughts. BOOM! Sparks flew from your body and short circuited the lights in your dressing room. Your hands clasped over your mouth as your body shook. Cries from outside made you stumble out to see that the entire building's lights were out. No one knew it was you.

ex-popstar! Reader who started to get tired of the same preppy, cutesy songs your label made you perform. It strained your throat pitching your voice every time. Secretly, you recorded songs that you wrote with your real voice, pouring your heart out on how trapped you felt. Your first act of rebellion was burning the songs into CDs and going out in disguise to donate them to thrift stores. You couldn't bring yourself to depart from one, though.

ex-popstar! Reader who started a lengthy legal battle to cut ties with your label. Through the smallest legal loophole, you were finally your own person at 28. You quietly disappeared and your label scrubbed away any affiliation with you. Fans speculated what happened to you and many genuinely thought you had died.

ex-popstar! Reader who lived an extremely private life since then with the support of your mother. You went more than a decade caked in makeup and wearing every single color of the rainbow. When you went out, no one looked at you twice with your real hair and natural features.

ex-popstar! Reader who, in your mid thirties, got the shock of a lifetime when your ex label came back with a vengeance. They demanded you pay back every cent they invested in you. An anxious wreck, you searched high and low for legal representation and landed on Nelson & Murdock.

ex-popstar! Reader who tearfully begged the two men that you'll pay them anything, just please help. While one looked wary because of the potential sensationalization of the case, the blind of the pair agreed to represent you. You didn't know he could hear your rapidly beating but truthful heart. You also smelled strange, a bit like ozone. He was curious.

ex-popstar! Reader who was advised to lay low. After grappling for years with autonomy, you were stubborn and still went out with a cap and hoodie. You'd started a habit of going to vintage stores and thrifting. You cringed every time you searched clothing racks and found a donated piece of your merch.

ex-popstar! Reader who is looking at DVDs, cassettes, and other physical media. When you shuffle around DVDs of children's movies, you freeze at seeing a CD. It had the title of a song and a small elegant signature in the bottom of your initials. Not your stage name or those stupid titles. Your real name.

ex-popstar! Reader who was so awestruck that you flinched when the CD was swiped. You turn your head and meet the hazel eyes of a man with dirty blond hair. You tried to bargain for it and he would not budge. You even followed him out, trying to convince him that you were the artist's biggest fan, and he still wouldn't budge. You even brought up that you had the same initials so obviously it was fate, and he simply stated it was coincidence.

And he said to stop following him. You eventually sighed and caved, seeing how bad of an impression you've made for this stranger. You switched gears and apologized, asking for the name of the guy you've bothered for multiple blocks now. He raised an eyebrow, but humored you.

He introduced himself as Dex.

You parted ways with one last playful taunt that you were still the artist's biggest fan and you bet he didn't have all 12 CDs. You kept one, after all.

When Dex arrived to his apartment and obsessively checked his collection, he almost seethed at the fact that you were right. He only had 11, including the one he just got. Who even were you? An illegal use of FBI resources led him down a rabbit hole of your true identity.

It was you that soothed him when Dr. Mercer's recorded sessions couldn't?

It was your voice that spoke to him at such a deeply personal level that pierced his soul?

His anger at your audacity melted into mortification at the fact that he of all people didn't immediately recognize your voice.

He had to find you again.

ex-popstar! Reader who is going about your day again until you feel that prickly sensation at the back of your neck every time you felt paparazzi following you. Your heart raced as you rapidly glanced around. You didn't see anything particularly unusual, but now you're anxious. Did your ex label send people after you? An attempt at a smear campaign? You quickly headed home, not once noticing Dex perched on top of a building.

ex-popstar! Reader who doesn't even notice your CD is gone until you find a knife embedded in your wall with the engraving 'I'm your biggest fan'. You immediately turn it over to Nelson & Murdock as potential evidence against your ex label, fearing they're now threatening your life. You miss Murdock's clenched jaw as the secret vigilante recognized the knife's design. What was Bullseye up to?

Dex was actively stalking you now. Most nights when he watched you sleep, he'd have his headset over his ears and connected to a CD player that played one of your songs.